


Share & Share Alike

by lavvyan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bad Fic, Community: sherlockbbc_fic, F/M, Id Fic, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-14
Updated: 2011-05-14
Packaged: 2017-10-19 09:31:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/199396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavvyan/pseuds/lavvyan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary Watson loves her husband. So does Sherlock Holmes. John loves them both. The solution seems obvious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mary Watson Makes Room

**Author's Note:**

> The wonderful thing about anonymous kink memes is that you can write unapologetic id fic. The wonderful thing about having no shame is that you can stick your name to it anyway.

"Why're you moving out all the things from the cellar?"

Mary set down the cardboard box she'd been lugging up the stairs – video tapes she'd collected during her time at uni; she didn't even know why she'd kept that stuff – and smiled at her baby boy.

"Because Uncle Sherlock is moving in with us, sweetie."

Charlie scrunched up his face as he contemplated this. At three-and-a-half, he was going through his inquisitive phase.

"Why?" Case in point.

 _Because he's in love with Daddy, and Daddy has a heart that's big enough for five._ Mary snorted and shook her head. "Because he got hurt and Daddy wants to keep an eye on him."

"But I thought he was taking the guest bedroom," Eirene piped up from the kitchen doorway.

 _And so will Daddy, every other night. God, I love him._

"If you two have so much time on your hands, how about you help me?" Mary asked, already knowing the answer.

"I'm eight," Eirene said at once, "that's child labour. That's illegal."

"Sure it is." Mary picked up the box again. "Is it illegal to hold the door open, oh child of mine?"

"Probably," Eirene said, but she held the door anyway. He dirty-blonde hair strained a bit towards the handle; static electricity was a bitch. "Guest bedroom?" she prompted.

"He'll need space for his experiments," Mary panted on her way up the stairs, "I'm not going to let him stink up the kitchen." The intrigued silence behind her said that both her children wouldn't mind any stinking-up of the kitchen if it was done in an interesting way.

She dropped the box with the others in the upstairs hall. John could drag them up to the attic; the exercise would do him good. It would also give her an excuse to give him a backrub, later. A definite win for everyone involved.

"But he's going to move out again, right?" Eirene said behind her, causing her to jump. "When he's fine?"

Mary turned to find her daughter chewing on her lower lip, clearly hoping to be told otherwise. Mary smiled at her. Apart from Sherlock being Eirene's favourite uncle – not that he had much of a competition, Mary's brothers being an accountant and an IT specialist, respectively – she had inherited John's boundless capacity to worry for those they held dear.

She was so proud of them it almost hurt.

"No, sweetie," she said. "I don't think Daddy will let him."

 _And neither will I. He'll just have to learn to share._


	2. Sherlock Goes Home

Sherlock blamed his lingering concussion on the fact that he didn't notice how the taxi wasn't on its way to Baker Street until they were already halfway to Harrow. The newlywed Watsons had bought a house there using funds from Mary's inheritance – substantial even after sharing it with her two siblings – and proceeded to fill it with their offspring, creating one distastefully normal, disgustingly happy family. It didn't seem to matter that Eirene was the biological daughter of another man; John loved her as fiercely as he did his two sons.

Try as he might, Sherlock had never been quite able to begrudge him that. In fact, he sometimes suspected that his own fondness for the Watson spawn might go beyond mere affection as well.

All of which didn't explain the direction the taxi was taking. Unless…

Ah.

"I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself," he said.

"I know," John replied. They both looked out of their respective windows for a while, streetlamps painting bright streaks across half-lit shop windows.

"It's only a broken wrist and a few bruised ribs," Sherlock said, purposely ignoring his wrenched knee. "They wouldn't have released me if the concussion was still an issue."

"I know."

Sherlock drummed the fingers of his good hand on his left leg.

"Your overbearing protectiveness is approaching Mycroftian proportions," he said. "You are not my keeper."

John grinned. "I know."

There was no arguing with the man. Arms crossed, Sherlock leaned back in his seat and stared gloomily at the pedestrian life in the streets. He hated this. Hated that he'd let someone get the better of him. Hated that his body ached all over. Hated that John was forcing him into co-habitation when they both knew it would only last for a few days before Sherlock was on his own again.

Hated that he craved it regardless.

He refused to let John help him out of the taxi and hobbled up to the front door as John paid the cabbie. No bags in the trunk beside the one he'd brought from hospital; a short stay, then. Merely long enough for John to reassure himself of Sherlock's well-being. Sherlock tried not to let that knowledge drag him into a sulk.

Moments later, he tried not go gasp in pain as three Watsons of various sizes threw themselves at him to see who could hug him the hardest.

"Uncle Sherlock!" Billy cried, echoed by his younger brother as they clung to his legs, while Eirene assured Sherlock's ribcage how glad she was that he was okay.

"Let your uncle breathe," Mary said cheerfully behind them. "No, come on, you got to say hello, now off to bed with you. No discussions, stick to the deal. Off to bed. Hello, Sherlock," she added, herding the protesting children into the house as he tried to catch his breath.

"Mary," he managed. Then John was at his elbow and started gently pulling him inside.

"You've got the guest bedroom," he said, as if Sherlock hadn't inferred that already. "Come on, let's get you settled in."

"I'm not one of your children," Sherlock wheezed. They moved slowly up the stairs, Sherlock gratefully clinging to the banister. His knee was vying with his ribs over which could induce the most agony, with his head beginning to pound like it wanted to join the competition.

John flashed another of those cheerful grins, and Sherlock nearly stumbled. "You know, you could fool me sometimes."

"Your wit is scintillating," Sherlock said acidly. John merely chuckled. Sherlock tried not to think about how he missed that sound, every now and then, on days that seemed particularly dull.

Inexplicably, John seemed to lose momentum when they had reached the guestroom door.

"I, uh." He scratched his head and pulled a face. "I'll leave you to it, then." He pressed the handle of the bag he'd been carrying into Sherlock's good hand. "Come down when you're ready, all right? Mary's making sandwiches."

"I'm not hungry," Sherlock said.

"I don't care," John returned, "you're eating something before you get your painkillers." For a moment, he looked as if he wanted to add something else, but obviously decided against it. With an awkward little wave, he quickly went back down the stairs, leaving Sherlock to wonder what that had been all about.

Frowning, Sherlock turned, opened the guestroom door, took a step inside… and stumbled to a halt, clutching the doorknob as his mouth fell open.

The walls were covered in pictures and case notes, all meticulously arranged as he had left them in his room at Baker Street. His violin case was leaning against the bedside table. The last book he'd been reading lay _on_ the bedside table, along with his magnifying glass, his pen and his collection of Victorian bookmarkers. His sheets were on the bed. No doubt his clothes would hang in the wardrobe if he checked, but his eyes were drawn by the bedside table. Dropping the bag by the door, pain ignored if not forgotten, he strode over to the seemingly innocuous piece of furniture, flinching as he dropped to one knee beside it, his fingers already fumbling at the lock of the small door beneath the single drawer.

The box fit perfectly into the narrow space. Sherlock let out a groan and let his head drop to his chest.

"Idiot," he whispered, meaning no one but himself. He'd known the dangers of sentimentality even as he indulged in them. He'd known the risk of discovery, had even toyed with it at times. He'd simply never thought that it might be John rather than Lestrade's drug-busting team who would find it; or if he had, he'd assumed it would be safely after his demise.

His fingers shaking, he ran his good hand over the box before he pulled it out, cradling it as he let himself sink back against the bed frame. John had found the box. John had looked inside the box. John had taken the box, and moved it into the room that was clearly designed to become Sherlock's new and permanent home.

All that remained for Sherlock to do was to find out why, and to decide where he would go when, inevitably, the reason turned out to be pity. India had always seemed interesting. So much crime, so much bribery. Sherlock might flourish there. He might even forget his unfortunate choice of infatuation. He might forget John.

He took a fortifying breath, knowing he'd have to get up in a moment and limp downstairs for his sandwich and painkillers; for John's worry and Mary's quiet sympathy. He wasn't ready. He wouldn't be ready, not for a long time, but he had to get up before John came back to find him, if only to get his emotions under control. The rational mind was superior to the baser urges. He'd get rid of the box the next morning.

Why, then, were his fingers curling around the lid? Why were they pulling it open, when all that lay inside was heartache?

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, touching his fingertips to the stack of notes, pictures and postcards, letting them trail lightly over the fabric of John's old jumper. Small mementos, all of them. Useless. Meaningless.

Cherished.

He opened his eyes and looked briefly at the contents of the box before moving to close the lid. He frowned.

The note on top was written by an unfamiliar hand, the letters looping and leaning slightly to the left. Female. Confident. Small splash of dried water curling the lower edge. Mary. Sherlock picked it up.

 _Your lab and books are in the cellar, as is a fridge with a lock for your more outlandish experiments. Please don't let the kids touch those._

Sherlock scoffed; as if he would.

 _If you need help moving anything, tell John. I did enough lugging-about already._

 _Speaking of John. I know you love my husband very much. No one who's seen this box could doubt it. I'm not sure you know_

And here the writing faltered slightly. Sherlock swallowed, his cheeks burning with humiliation. He'd have to call Mycroft. He couldn't stay in this house, not for a single night.

 _how deeply he loves you in return. I've seen the way he looks at you. You mean the world to him. You mean the world to all of us, if not quite in the same way._

 _So when he comes to fetch you, Sherlock, do us a favour and let him kiss you. He glows when you're happy. If you promise to share, so do I._

 _Mary_

Sherlock sat frozen, his thoughts at a standstill as he stared at the note in his hand.

 _I'm not sure you know how deeply he loves you in return._

He pulled in a shaky breath, his sight blurring without his conscious decision.

 _I'm not sure you know how deeply he loves you in return._

His throat hurt. So did the back of his nose. He blinked, and water splashed onto the note, smudging the ink. His head ached.

 _You mean the world to him._

A slight knock on the open door. Sherlock didn't move. More water dripped onto the note, and he couldn't seem to stop it.

"Sherlock?" John asked quietly from the doorway. "All right?"

Sherlock shook his head; his throat was too tight to speak, even if he'd known what to say.

John sighed, then walked slowly into the room, clearly prepared to get out if Sherlock told him to. Sherlock didn't tell him to. John sat down beside him, their shoulders not quite touching, and cleared his throat. His hand moved towards the box in Sherlock's lap, but pulled back before it could touch. Sherlock swallowed hard and, fingers still clutching the note, showed it to John.

"Oh." John seemed at a loss. "I… We didn't talk about it, but… Oh, hell."

He leaned in, his body the only source of warmth in the world, and brushed a light kiss against Sherlock's aching temple. Sherlock screwed his eyes shut and leaned into it. Wetness soaked into John's jumper as he reached out and pulled Sherlock into an awkward embrace.

"It's the drugs," he murmured, lightly stroking Sherlock's back. "You'll be back to your infuriating self as soon as you get off the painkillers."

Sherlock hiccupped a small laugh. Trust John to be pragmatic over Sherlock's breakdown.

They sat like that for a while; Sherlock surrounded by John and barely able to believe it. _You mean the world to him._ He didn't deserve it.

"Will you stay?" John asked quietly.

Sherlock scoffed. "Don't be any stupider than you have to be," he managed with something approaching his usual disdain, before he ruined the effect by pressing his nose into John's shoulder.

John chuckled, his hand reaching for Sherlock's good one and clasping it tightly. Sherlock tangled their fingers together, his breathing steadier now that his new reality started to sink in, and they sat like that until Mary brought the sandwiches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG apologies for the sugar shock! Please to be sure to brush your teeth and make regular appointments with the dentist!

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this prompt:
> 
> It's 2020. John is married, perhaps even has children. Sherlock is in hospital with a minor injury and John wants to bring him a change of clothes. In Sherlock's room, John finds a box. In that box, there is (among other things)his old striped jumper that he thought he'd lost, his favourite mug, pictures of himself, postcards he'd sent to Sherlock from abroad, random notes he'd written when they were still flatmates like "Body parts don't belong here", his fingernail clippings, emails to Sherlock printed out, even some texts copied out on paper... It is clear that all the things are often touched and handled.
> 
> Sherlock has been secretly in love with John for all these years.


End file.
